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THE 

IMPERIAL 

ONE 



A LONDON WAIF'S 
WAR DREAM 



Joseph Merlin Hodson 



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THF 
IMPERIAL ONE 



A LONDON WAIFS 
' WAR DREAM 



Joseph merlin hodson 



Published for the 

National War Work Council of 

Young Men's Christian Associations, 

by 

Association Press 

347 Madison Avenue, New York 

1918 

R. W. B. 



^%i' 



Copyright, 1918, by 

The International Committee of 

Young Men's Christian Associations 



OtC -2 I, 



©Cl. A 5 0834 3 



The Imperial One 

A London Waif's War Vision 

He pulled off his cap with an impulsive 
jerk, and bobbed a recognition to the officers 
of the enlistment bureau. It was a bit of 
the fag end of humanity who stood cap in 
hand offering himself, not knowing what 
he gave, nor to whom he gave it. The men 
in charge glanced at each other, and turned 
in their seats with a look of hopeless im- 
patience. An insignificant runt of a cock- 
ney was coming forward. To that tha 
pride of the British army was reduced. 
But they took him because they had, to 
have him. They took him for what he 
measured and what he weighed in the hope 
that he might do. 

A name was required and other informa- 
tion, but they could get nothing out of him 
that was satisfactory. He told them that 
he had always been called Bill. That was 
apparently all that he knew about it. Nor 
was there any record that he ever had been 
born, or of father or mother. He began' the 
story of himself as he had it from the 
women of the East Side, but they stopped 



him. It was of no use, so they called him 
William London, after the city. Thus for 
the first time he was written down a human 
being, and began to count for what there 
might be in him. The driving pressure for 
men and more men was ringing through 
the city and its appeal dredged to the bot- 
tom among those who had been rated as 
the waste of London. 

The haphazard of what he had to give 
was a romance of the streets. Coster 
women who pushed their carts about would 
willingly stop to tell the story of Bill. They 
would begin with the day when Roamin' 
Sail '' 'ad 'im as a lump of a biby." The 
•tale might very likely run to how for years 
she had made a living by sitting at Hyde 
Park Gate and other public places "with a 
biby in 'er arms when as we all knows 'er 
never 'ad one." At first apparently it had 
been by borrowing a baby as she could on 
shares of what she made. Then you might 
hear that Bill was a great mystery, for " 'er 
would never tell." It might be told that 
she was beautiful to look at — very like the 
Madonna, and also that she was a great 
one to look after Bill. Thus the helpless 
years were passed until he was big enough 
to fend for himself along with the stray 
dogs and cats. When she died he didn't 

4 



very well know what it meant, but he soon 
came to be known "as the nipper as was 
not to be put upon." He disarmed many 
a blow and got many a bite to eat, and a 
place to sleep by his "knack of gittin' round 
any try, as yer may." 

From the bottom he came a mere fag end 
of vagrancy, but he was soon herded into 
military order and discipline. There was 
in him, as in all of us, however, the mighty 
mystery, and much that was unexpected 
came out in the hard school of the training 
camps. With singular endurance he hard- 
ened into a soldier. From the first he had 
a way of infecting his company with the 
spirit of making the best of it. His courage 
and cockney humor helped to keep the men 
going in all kinds of weather. Often he 
would jolly his comrades out of their lone- 
liness and their discouragement. Very soon 
the captain discovered the service he was 
rendering, and counted upon him in keeping 
the men up to their duty. Promotion was 
rapid in those hurrying days, but it never 
came to Bill. He was to the end a leader 
in the ranks. 

The toll of the war went on, but there 
were few who foresaw that the time might 
come when the issue of battles would have 
to depend in a large degree upon the likes 



of Bill. There was no military experience 
which would set much value upon his kind. 
But all tradition of the way that war should 
be waged was being trampled in the mud 
of retreating armies. It was a time when 
the raw souls of men were thrust forward 
for what they could stop, or what they 
might do. The discard of the race was 
being trained and rushed to the front. Men 
who had never known themselves to be men 
were born in a day. The courage which 
had been buried out of sight in sordid lives 
shouldered the rifle and fought with the 
bravest. 

Thus it came about that Bill got to the 
trenches long before he was fully made into 
a soldier after the regulations. And of 
course it could not be expected that he 
would so quickly take on much of the con- 
ventions either of the army or of life in 
general. He was in a new world — trans- 
lated. 

There was one very distinctive thing 
about Bill. He had probably never heard 
that rather ugly word, "pragmatist," but 
that is what he really was, by some kind 
of native genius. Ha thing worked he 
hung on to it, and never could be shaken 
out of it. He found that it worked to stick 
to something that he got from a street 

6 



preacher. The man was rather gifted in 
portrayal, and Bill followed him about in 
a sort of hypnotic state, until the thing 
became as real to him as the familiar streets 
and the people he knew. Somehow in his 
utter ignorance he gained an ideal, and it 
worked, so he held to it as animals hold to 
an instinct. From that time on he was no 
longer kicked about, for as it came to be 
said, " 'E 'ad a wy with 'im." 

When at last he got into the trenches 
he was precisely the same Bill, but with 
a new development. It wasn't all hell, for 
it could not quite be that where so much 
that was hearty and courageous was bound 
to break through, as the sun through the 
clouds. 

One day he let himself go for the thing 
that w^as in him, and which he could no 
longer hold back. 

"Eh, Pard ! I'm for the King as I 'eard 
about. 'Im what's 'igh over all." 

"Hush, Bill ! They'll shoot you. Almost 
anything is treason now, don't you know?" 

"Treason be blowed ! I tells yer what I 
means. There 'as got to be 'Im. All this 
is no manner o' use." 

They were up to their knees in mud and 
water. His pard was a Rhodes scholar, who 
had won his honors in one of the Canadian 

7 



cities of the far Northwest. The swirl of 
the war found him at Oxford, as he was 
settling down to make his way through 
those great halls of learning. Bill was a 
new kind for him, and he found him amus- 
ing, as well as startlingly shrewd some- 
times. That idea of a King he understood 
quite well, but he couldn't rid himself of 
the feeling that it was not to be spoken of 
in that realistic way — it seemed to him a 
bit irreverent. But they accepted Bill for 
what he was and liked him. He really 
was what he called himself — "The Prob- 
lem." In one of his moods he had once 
said, ''Who'd a thought they could ever git 
us 'ere — us problems? But 'ere us is and 
we gives it to 'em same as any." 

The men were very tolerant of what they 
called his "fancy," when Bill began to speak, 
as he often did of the One "as I sees plain." 

But he kept at it until it seemed rather 
abnormal. In the end some kind of an 
official inquiry was made as to what he 
really meant. The idea got about that it 
was a trench mania bordering on insanity. 
It wasn't long before he was back in the 
lines cured of everything but his "fancy." 
They thought he was cured of that, for 
during the few days they had him under 
observation he slept away his excitement 



and sank into such a reaction of physical 
comfort that it submerged. But he still 
often muttered something about "the new 
'un." And he insisted that when all saw 
him, it would be different. 

It is just possible that he was one of 
those crude agencies serving some such pur- 
pose in these days as did those ancient 
prophets who came out of the wilderness. 
There can be no question but his "fancy" 
won its way, and the men began to talk 
about it. They debated it, for the idea 
itself rather fell in with their feeling of 
something impending in these uncanny 
times. 

Then Bill himself won upon them. He 
was, of course, out of his class with most 
of the men, but he was such a cheery, hope- 
ful beggar, and so quick to help a comrade. 
They all knew that he was terribly under- 
class, and now and again one would resent 
it, but that kind of thing never made much 
headway. Bill had been having to do with 
the Coster bully from the time he was a 
babe, and it was a valuable schooling. His 
sense of humor, or his curiosity, often got 
him into the front row of a dangerous 
crowd, that he might see the letting down 
that he seemed to know the bully was bound 
to get. Ignorant as he was, he always 

9 



knew when anyone was trying to ride him 
down because of his class. That was the 
time when he was ready for battle. It was 
not on record that anyone had ever got 
the better of him in one of these contests, 
and he almost never made an enemy of his 
antagonist. When, as sometimes happened, 
a man who was in a bad humor would 
attempt to gratify himself by taking a fall 
out of Bill on account of what he might 
at that time call his religious views, the 
boys were sure to be on hand for the "cir- 
cus." But these occasions always left them 
more convinced that he had hold of some- 
thing whatever it might be. 

A little later there came a night when 
Bill won distinction. And he won it by 
those very qualities which had made him a 
"problem" while hunting a living on the 
streets of London. That everlasting battle 
had sharpened him to a keenness which far 
exceeds all military discipline. He had be- 
come clever at creeping and dodging. Years 
of drill never could have trained him into 
a human ferret, for that is what he really 
was on this night when but for him the 
tide of battle might have changed at a 
critical time. He didn't know where Calais 
was, nor why the Germans wanted it. And 
being merely a "problem" he was perhaps 

10 



a little deficient as to strictly obeying 
orders. 

It was a night when the war of the 
trenches was superseded by the war of the 
heavens. The storm was so violent that 
men could only hold their post fighting to 
endure it. But it was perhaps less to Bill 
than to others, because his mind worked 
under just such conditions. All his life he 
had been learning to fend for himself when 
the weather was bad. 

Watching his chance, and without orders 
he slipped from the shelter and began to 
creep toward the enemy. He had been gone 
a long time but had not been missed when 
he tumbled into the trench as if shot from 
a cannon. Half a dozen bayonets would 
have quenched his story, had he not made 
a password of the name by which he was so 
well known. "The Problem — The Problem 
— 'E ain't no German." This saved him 
and stayed the bayonets at his khaki suit. 
Then he quickly told his story. 

In tw^o minutes they believed him. In 
another the telephones were busy. While 
the heavens thundered and crashed the dis- 
positions were made. When the historic 
rush came they were ready — terribly, aw- 
fully ready. 

Bill never knew what happened except 

11 



as it was told to him afterward, when he 
found that he was still alive. 

The fag end did his part, but he lay out 
on that battle-swept area for two uncon- 
ceivable days and nights before they could 
get to him. Then for two weeks he was 
slowly passed along, the story of what he 
did and his bravery going with him. In 
time he was received into a well-ordered 
hospital with such special mention that he 
soon found it difficult to understand their 
kindness and skilful care of him. 

They nursed his poor body back into the 
best that could be made of it, but when he 
finally got going, and felt quite at home 
he became a greater puzzle than he had 
been in the trenches. That mental picture 
of which he would talk became a matter 
of scientific interest. Of course the staff 
thought they knew, and learned discussion 
grew out of his case. Some thought it a 
very interesting case of auto-hypnotism. 
Others said it was a remarkable gift of 
visualization. It brought him under special 
observation. But the general instructions 
were that he was to be let have his way 
if he didn't get too excited. "Don't reason 
with him — quiet him — humor his views 
whatever they may be — poor fellow, he 
can't last long in any case." 

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But his sayings went all about the hos- 
pital. They were told in whispered con- 
versations. The younger surgeons who 
thought they knew smiled when they were 
repeated, and then joined in the discussion 
with pretty and demure nurses. These 
angels of mercy were not so easily satisfied 
with a theory. They had sat with him, and 
somehow felt there was something to be 
explained. Perhaps, too, that quickness of 
intuition for which we give their sex credit 
came into play. In a military hospital there 
may be all moods of gaiety, or tenderness, 
or passion; but the great realities thrust 
up and stalk about. It must always be in 
a sort of half light of what is beyond. Thus 
for those of the nurses who were most fre- 
quently near Bill there were many questions. 
But his queer cockney dialect often had to 
be translated, and that was not easy. 

He would break out abruptly sometimes 
with something that seemed merely to con- 
tinue a sort of vision of his own, which he 
had made no effort to put into words. "The 
bloke says as 'ow they all falls down afore 
Tm. Ain't that it now? All doin' the 
same. Kings and the like doin' the same as 
we, 'cause 'E's 'igh over all, then bein' dif- 
ferent when they knows. Bly me, we needs 
it, after what I sees out there." 

13 



One day his nurse was trying to remove 
a dressing with very skilful gentleness, and 
seeing his control of himself smiled with 
perhaps more of the kindly feeling in her 
face than she knew. This moved Bill to 
say, "Us problems ain't worth it." 

"Indeed you are ! You did your part. 
Ours is only a little, but it is all we can do." 

"That's 'ow as 'E gits 'igh over all now, 
ain't it?" 

"I don't know, Bill, about that. What 
makes you think so?" 

"Why, 'E's workin' in yer all the time. 
That's what." 

"Oh, no ! You must not say things like 
that. Don't say things like that, please. 
I'm like you — only a problem." 

Then poor Bill had the nearest to a gen- 
uine laugh that his broken face would per- 
mit. There was an undertone in it of some- 
thing of which he was very sure and that 
was satisfying. Thus he laughed as many 
of us would like to laugh if we could only 
find the way, and continued to laugh until 
his nurse was curious to know why. 

"You must tell me. Bill." 

"Why I keeps on laughing? Cos yer 
don't know you'se a hangel. 'E gits yer 
when yer smiles, an' when yer does for 
me." 

14 



''Oh, you are so patient — and so cheerful 
all the time." 

"Problems 'as to be cheery. Us don't git 
much any time, no matter 'ow yer fixes it." 

"But that King. You seem to think you 
see something, and I know whatever it is it 
makes things different with you." 

"Sure I sees 'Im. 'E 'elps too. I knows 
that. Yer don't need ter know 'ow. Seems 
us can't find out. But yer lets 'Im an' 'E 
does it. Yer just looks an' sees, an' knows 
what 'E means. It's like when yer prays. 
Somethin' comes an' then yer gits up an' 
goes on an' does it." 

"I wish I knew, Bill, but I don't." 

"It's easy. I got it off a bloke out White- 
chapel wy. 'E says as 'ow when yer means 
ter try 'E comes along unsight an' unseen 
an' makes it so yer can do it. I fancy 'E 
'elps any — them Boches, too, when they 
needs 'Im." 

"Oh ! I hate them." 

"Not when they gits 'ere yer don't. 
They're the same when they needs fixin' up 
this a-way." 

"That's true, Bill. We do take care of 
them, and they are very grateful for it, 
too." 

"Sure ! That's what I means. They're 
the same. 'E's 'igh over Boches same as 

15 



us. Them Blacks, too, from Ingy, I fancy, 
ain't 'E?" 

"You are funny. Bill. I can't understand 
how you feel like that about the Germans 
after what they did to you." 

Again the broken face was distorted as 
the laugh gurgled in his throat. It was 
some time before he was able to say, "You 
does what they needs. That's better'n 
knowin'." 

"Who wouldn't, poor fellows? They are 
so pitiful and helpless." 

"That's it ! We all is for 'Im as sees 
plain what we're doin'. 'E sees us don't 
know 'ow it looks." 

"We are all a blind lot — fighting the way 
we are, and all this patching up and suffer- 
ing." 

Bill was restless. When it came to think- 
ing, his untaught mind was not equal to it. 
Besides, his nurse had led him on to a sort 
of explanation of what he meant, a thing 
which he had never attempted before so 
fully. He rarely went beyond a few phrases 
such as "I sees" or "I knows for sure." 

What he saw was a mystery, but so also 
is that which a poet sees. It does seem 
possible, however, to believe there may be 
a great forgotten law by which some see — 
even babes — that which is obscured by our 

16 



conceit of the sufficiency of wisdom and 
prudence. Surely some of us have learned 
in these days that there is much that we 
do not see. 

His nurse knew that he was suffering, 
and she kept her cooling hand on such parts 
of his face as she could find unbandaged. 
Quite naturally she thought he was suffer- 
ing the pain of his wounds. Thus she re- 
mained with him, plying her kindly offices. 
She gave her smile and her soothing hand 
in service, and of course did not know how 
what she did might through Bill be trans- 
muted and multiplied a thousand fold. 

Presently he opened his eyes and smiled 
and said, ''This 'ere's 'eaven now. I asks 
you that?" 

"A sort of heaven, perhaps, but what 
makes you think so? You know w^e don't 
often call it that." 

"I knows it's a manner o' speakin', but 
it's the same. You're doin' fer us now, 
ain't yer ? Well, what's yer git outen it ? 
Nothin ! We needs fixin' an' yer does it." 

"Yes, Bill. We are all glad to do it. 
Thousands of women — and great surgeons 
too — good and bad, great and humble." 

"Not bad — never when they's doin' like 
this. I tells yer it's 'eaven when any does 
what's needed willin'." 

17 



"But you know, Bill, we are not good. 
We don't pretend to be." 

"Pertendin' ain't it. Doin's most. That's 
what I calls 'eaven." 

"Heaven is where we expect to go when 
we die, is it not?" 

"That ain't what the bloke says — not by 
a lot it ain't. 'E says it's what's inside yer 
when yer does things." 

"But I am not to argue with you, Bill. 
The doctors told me that." And the smile 
that went with the caution was the illumina- 
tion of a quite common young woman, who 
was by no means beautiful. Nor was she 
conscious of it, except as one may be con- 
scious of feeling kindness, and a wish to do 
just what ought to be done. She was work- 
ing far beyond her ordinary strength, and 
yet never giving a reluctant service. Of 
the fact that her rather dull face could give 
cheer she had not thought. In her life be- 
fore taking up this work there had been 
few smiles. The lines of her face were not 
those of cheer and good will. But now 
from cot to cot she went — an unaccustomed 
soothing in her hand — a considerate light- 
ness in her step, and a smile often of which 
she did not know. 

Poor Bill, "the problem," and she had 
something in common. He had never 

18 



counted as a human being. There had never 
been the chance to feel like one. His best 
memory was of finding some place from 
which he would not be driven out. In cold 
weather he was always cold. There had 
never been a feast in which he was quite 
free from hunger after it. The compelling 
instinct by which anything that is alive tries 
to live kept him alive. This was how he 
learned. The lightning flash of the street 
preacher had given him a picture — life, and 
perhaps the great artist had filled it out. 

With all his limits he had a gift. When 
it was said that he was jolly and good- 
natured it was always felt that more should 
be said by those who knew him best. Many 
did try to express it in better terms, but to 
the end it remained baffling. His nature 
was apparently simple as a child's, and yet 
there was a mystery. Busy surgeons lin- 
gered to speak with him, and it is just 
possible that his cheer gave them a more 
supple command of their skill. 

He sometimes called what he had to say, 
"goin' on." When they told him that he 
was a good patient his answer was, "There 
ain't no other way." Then again it was, 
"What's the good of bein' different?" He 
had no better thought of the situation than, 
"making the best of it." This he did so 

19 



consistently that few found the courage to 
make the worst of it, as we are all rather 
inclined to do sometimes for the indulgence 
of certain moods. 

One day a nurse said to an eminent sur- 
geon as they walked away from his cot, 
"He makes you feel different." The reply 
was not given quickly. Presently he nodded 
several times without speaking, and then 
said, "There is something about him quite 
unlike what you would expect from a 
patient of his class." 

Thus as a human entity Bill lived. He 
who never before had been anything be- 
came interesting. There had been brought 
to the surface through his suffering a sort 
of subconscious refinement. This made him 
within his limits quite like our ideal of what 
a gentleman ought to be. But without any 
well-defined plan to do it, and without any 
more ability to know how to do it than a 
child would have, he helped others to vis- 
ualize the great ideal of the ages. Day 
after day, and night after night, like a child 
he made a picture. He was a child. He 
receded more and more into the simplicity 
of a child. There he lay — one who had 
rendered a man's service in his awful hour 
— now serving as children do, who gently 
soften the hard outlines of the pictures men 

20 



carry home out of the battles of every day. 
It mattered not on which side of the cot one 
sat or was standing, for Bill's picture, if it 
came at all, was formed in the field of one's 
vision. More or less uniformly it was seen, 
often not very clearly; but when seen it 
was of One whose majesty no great master 
has yet been able to paint to the satisfaction 
of those who see for themselves. It seems 
always to have eluded the skill of the can- 
vas, and of our poor words. From any pic- 
ture other than one's own the reality of 
this ideal may forever pass. He who once 
came to us and gave it form -often passed 
from the view of the crowd that he might 
live in their memory, and form in their 
vision. 

This was now all that Bill had left out of 
his meager life. But it grew clearer and 
brighter. It shone for him by some light 
of its own. 

The story of Bill got about, and traveled 
far beyond the hospital. An English writer 
of great distinction came to see him. Her 
introduction was of such influence that it 
could not be denied. With that touch of 
human nature which makes all the world 
akin she quickly won his heart. She also 
had the patience and insight to draw him 
out. 

21 



She said, "I heard about you in Paris, 
and you will let me talk with you, will you 
not?" 

"Vm willin'. Missis, if you takes me rough 
and ready." 

"We are all proud of you. So many have 
heard of what you did." 

"I ain't done nothin', Missis. Not me I 
ain't. I just went at it same as all. We all 
done best we could." 

"But you didn't flinch when the time 
came. That is what we British like to feel. 
Always to be ready to do our part." 

*'Me ? I 'ad to do it, Lidy. Us didn't see 
nothin' different." 

"But you gave all you had." 

"Some says that, Missis. 'Ere they says 
it. But me? I don't git back no way o' 
thinkin' about it. I fancy I only done same 
as 'Im." 

"The same as whom?" 

" 'Im as what give 'Isself. That's what 
'E done, now, ain't it?" 

"I don't think I know quite what you 
mean." 

"I means 'Im as what I 'card about. A 
bloke out Whitechapel wy was 'ummin' 
steady about 'Im what give 'Isself, an 'E 
did it willin' for all." 

"Surely you mean our Blessed Saviour." 

22 



"That's 'Im, Lidy. That's what I means, 
only that ain't 'ow as 'e said it. It's 'Im as 
give 'Isself 'cause 'E'd do.' 

"And so you thought you ought to give 
yourself." 

"Thinkin' ain't it, Lidy. Feelin' an' doin's 
more like it. At 'ome when I 'eard I git's 
to feelin'. Then I begins doin' — fer cats 
an' dogs first — lame ones and hungry when 
I finds 'em. After that, then, fer kids as 
needed — any. Soon I likes it better that 
wy — sort o' 'appy I was like — an' kep' on. 
Then I 'eard they 'ad to 'ave us problems. 
Then I gits to feelin' mebbe I'd do same 
as 'Im." 

"And so that was how you came to en- 
list." 

"When they says 'give yerself it looks 
like it was the same. It 'ad to be done fer 
them as needed." 

"For your country. That is how we all 
feel. Our country needs us and we will 
give all we have." 

"Mebbe that's what made me do it. I 
don't know, Lidy, 'bout them things." 

"Oh, ^Ts ! Your country called and you 
gave. That was a noble thing to do and 
we all honor you." 

Bill was restless. Again he was trying 
to think. His visitor saw that he was un- 

23 



easy, and asked if she could do anything 
for him, or should call his nurse. 

"No, I ain't wantin' anythin'. It ain't 
what yer thinks wy I went." And he shook 
his head vigorously, because in that way he 
could be more sure that he was making it 
plain that there was something wrong with 
what he wanted her to understand, "I 
don't want no 'onors er nothin'. When 'E 
gits yer, why, yer willin'. All is. Kings an' 
such would be." 

It was difficult to find a place on the 
bandaged face where a hand could be laid. 
And words for even this distinguished lady 
of words became difficult. She took the 
exceedingly common hand which lay upon 
the sheet into both of hers, which were 
soft and expressive. What it meant for 
Bill was doubtless very much indeed. But 
for her it was the confession of her slow- 
ness and her littleness in realizing some- 
thing of which she had long lost sight. 
She, too, now had the feeling of giving 
herself in a larger way, and with a greater 
willingness. The message which must for- 
ever, and for all, far transcend words had 
come to her clearly. The silence implied 
humility, of the kind that is our greatest 
exaltation — and perhaps for her the breath- 
ing within her of the Spirit Who reveals. 

24 



Two souls so differently housed had come 
together at the elevation where human 
littleness or greatness may not be measured. 
Poor Bill could not very clearly tell in 
words, but he had found a way to reveal 
to her who was gifted in telling. She was 
an artist in the use of words. What she 
received would make its own pictures, and 
tell with her gifts. It was quite as if the 
great artist spirit of the ages had found 
in the simplicity of Bill the least hindrance. 
That mighty pressure of truth, it may have 
been, which once seeking lodgment found 
fishermen, now found this waif — this stray 
— the most willing among us all. 

She left Bill with few words nor did he 
need any. Her hands had spoken, and her 
silence. That was a language he could 
understand. 

The change which was taking place in 
him was quite remarkable. His natural 
traits receded. The commonness percepti- 
bly fell away. Whatever it was that was 
in him greater than his poor human limits 
gained a finer proportion. Something with- 
in him cast off its shackles and grew more 
clearly defined. 

As he lingered there were indications 
from time to time that some sufficient pur- 
pose was making its way through him. 

25 



One day a group of patients was being 
discharged to make room for others coming 
in. They passed out carried — or limping 
in pain — others groping with sightless eyes 
to find their way through the years. Of 
course the halo of their great hour would 
fade. They would come to common days, 
and to common men and women — these 
fractions of men, and would have to hold 
their own with hard conditions. A surgeon 
who stood looking on was greatly moved 
and said, "May the Great God who leads 
some gently, and carries others, take care 
of these poor boys." Then he added, as if 
not quite satisfied, "May they find the ten- 
derness of a people over whom the Great 
King rules." 

Another surgeon who had been standing 
beside him asked as they walked away to- 
gether, "What King, and where does he 
rule ?" 

The answer came quickly, "Bill's King — 
Bill, the problem. You know about him — 
you have heard him go on, as he calls it?" 

"Yes, but I have never thought much 
about him — too busy. A little wanting 
here," tapping his forehead, "is he not? I 
have thought when at all of him as little 
more than a child." 

"A child in a way. But he was a man 

26 



in his loyalty to the call of his country. 
Then he was a man in courage in the battle 
lines — almost more than a man in the way 
that he met pain, and the cheeriest and jolli- 
est patient among thousands. His imagina- 
tion gave him pictures we never see. He 
has a faith that takes hold of something 
that I should like to find. When he gets 
to the end I expect he may see something 
that will carry him through. Does it never 
occur to you, Edwards, that this human 
nature of ours is a bit baffling? We don't 
get into the whole of it with the knife." 

"Ah ! I admit it, and for that matter the 
whole order of things in these pesky times." 

With that they parted. 

sjs ^ 4c Sj{ >){ 

On a cot within one from Bill lay a young 
priest of the Roman Catholic Church who 
had been terribly wounded in his first battle. 
He was blinded, unable to speak, and for 
that reason was compelled to write any- 
thing that he wanted to say. At first he 
had been unintentionally made to feel a 
sort of isolation from the fact that he was 
a priest. While he received every atten- 
tion needed there was a barrier. The sacred- 
ness of his office made the nurses a little 
shy of such a kindly intimacy as had so 
easily sprung up with Bill. When they 

27 



read his little notes they caught in a degree 
the patriotic spirit which had caused him 
to lay aside his clerical duties and volunteer 
for service in the ranks. When he was 
gone what he had written was gathered up, 
and some fragments may be permitted to 
go the way of this story for the message 
they carry. It seems best that they should 
be given very much as they came from his 
pencil. We shall not at our best quite see 
all that he saw, for our vision is not yet 
clear of the mists, nor should it be until 
cleared by that other battle — the battle of 
life. 

"I have been permitted to hear the one 
they call Bill very often in what he said to 
those with whom he spoke. At first I 
thought he merely repeated what he' had 
heard in some Protestant Mission. But I 
soon discovered that he was of no sect or 
belief. He seems to be an original who 
can see without doctrine. For that of which 
he speaks all know; but do not clearly see. 
He escapes from much by which we are 
bound as a bird might fly up, and sees the 
Christ as a King ruling the spirits of all 
men. It is a beautiful vision. But is it not 
what the Church teaches, for does not His 
Holiness also bow in great meekness of 
spirit before the Supreme One? 

28 



What I have come to feel of this man 
of a very humble station in life is that he 
arrives at the greatest things without rea- 
son, and almost without knowledge. For 
after hearing him now these many weeks I 
know that he speaks of what we all ack- 
nowledge and confess as of that which is 
taking place before his eyes. He does not 
"vary or change. In all he is consistent. But 
I have never, even in the holiest of saints, 
observed that they in the same way have 
seemed to see the Kingdom of God, as one 
might say in operation. Is it a gift of 
vision? Or is it merely the use of a faith 
so simple that it finds the way of the Holy 
Apostles ? 

I have no longer much strength. But as 
bodily weakness comes upon me much that 
I have not seen before appears as if made 
bright in the darkness. Can it be that I 
now see by some aided light ? 

Here in the darkness when they make it 
so that we may all sleep I hear men whisper 
the Sacred Name as no other word is spok- 
en. It is mingled with the names of those 
at home whom they love. Sometimes in 
the stress of great pain I hear it as when 
in desperation one would cry out for a 
friend long forgotten. Yesterday not many 
cots away a man in great suffering loudly 

29 



uttered the Sacred Name in blasphemy. 
When a hint was gently given that he was 
doing this, not only was he subdued; but 
he asked forgiveness of those about him, 
and in great humility. He later again 
spoke of what I believe was true when 
he said he had not meant to use that name 
hatefully. 

Is there not everywhere a deep under- 
current of affection? Is there not in the 
roughest and most untaught of men a sub- 
conscious respect which is little less than 
love, and only comes above the threshold 
when the deeper feeling is forced up? 

These are the thoughts of the night. The 
thoughts of the day are more difficult. It is 
then that I must fly to the simplicity of the 
faith of Bill. It is then that I cry out to 
God to know whether this beautiful faith 
can be found only by the breaking of our 
idols in this most terrible war." 

One morning Bill wakened and lay for 
some time without speaking. It was that 
depressing hour when human vitality sags — 
the hour of chilling darkness before the 
dawn of which patient watchers know so 
well. A nurse who had been with him a 
great deal was waiting near. She knew 
that he was awake, but she lingered, hoping 

30 



that he would fall asleep again. When he 
moved as if trying to sit up, she came to 
him. She thought he might have been 
dreaming, and asked if anything had dis- 
turbed him. For a moment he did not 
reply, as if he were waiting for his mind 
to clear. Then he smiled and said, ** 'E's 
gittin' up, ain't 'E?" 

"Not yet, it's not near morning." 

"But 'E is. I sees Tm. There now, you 
sees Tm, too, don't yer?" 

"Yes, Bill, I see it too." 

He looked at her intently and then 
laughed as best he could, evidently know- 
ing that she was humoring him. 

"It ain't no sun as I sees. It's 'Im. 'E's 
comin' up as the sun of a mornin'. There's 
mists, too, as of a mornin', but 'E's gittin' 
above 'em. They'll all see now when 'E 
shines out." 

'T hope so. Bill." 

"Sure ! They'll all fall down afore 'Im, 
an' then it'll be different." 

'T hope so. Heaven knows we all need 
it." 

'' 'E's shinin' in 'ere now, ain't 'E ?" 
'Tn you. I think He is.' 
"In all. 'E's gittin' us all the time." 
"It is different. Since you have come we 
are all different. There is no doubt about 

31 



that. You have made it easier for all of us. 
We have learned to be a little more patient 
and willing." 

"They all will be when they sees Tm." 
''Oh, Bill, I don't understand. I don't 
understand at all. But as you say, I'm will- 
ing. We want to do the best we can, but 
don't you- see, we are not like you." 

The poor mortal who was hovering on 
the verge of the great mystery hunched 
himself up a little on his cot, as if to gain 
some advantage in what he wanted to say. 
But when he had done this he settled down 
again, as if giving up; but his face changed 
to surprise. He opened his mouth, leaning 
forward, held between the effect of what he 
was looking at, and his eagerness to de- 
scribe it. With mute signs, and then reach- 
ing out his hand quickly and nervously, he 
tried to bring the nurse to look with him. 
Whatever it was that he saw, or from what- 
ever source the picture may have been 
formed, it was real to him. His eyes caught 
some radiance. It held him rapt and com- 
forted till the morning broke. 



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